Mail Call
by Signy1
Summary: Mail, for the heroes, is a lifeline, the one fragile thread connecting them to the world outside the wire. And for their families, it's the one proof they have that their sons and brothers are still alive, still themselves, even in the harshest of circumstances. Both sides are being encouraging, reassuring, cheery... and, if not actually lying, perhaps embroidering the truth a bit.
1. Chapter 1

_Dear Mavis,_

 _It's been another fun-filled XXXX here at good old XXXXX. Organized a XXXX tournament with some of my mates; first round was bunkmates competing, then the winners competed until each XXXXXX had a champ, and so forth. Grand prize was a XXXXXX and some XXXXXXX, and second place was a brand new pair of socks—the ones Auntie XXXX sent me, as it happens. Might sound like a bit of a joke, but socks that don't have holes in them are XXXXXXXX around here. I can't possibly be the only one who knows how to darn a sock in the entire XXXXXXXXXX, but you wouldn't know that by looking at our clothesline on laundry day. Lazy XXXXXX, the lot of them._

 _For obvious reasons, XXXX said that yours truly wasn't allowed to compete. I can't say I was too XXXXXX about that, but in the spirit of turning the other cheek, I offered them Auntie's latest effort, as a prize, just to show there were no hard feelings. And the bloke that won the socks, complete with all the knots and lumps in the knitting that make a chap's feet blister and bleed, was, you guessed it, XXXX, so one might say that I won anyway. He was a fairly good sport about it, but he says that next time I suggest a round of XXXX, he's going to XXXXXXX me in the XXXXXX just to make sure that I can't XXXXXXX again. As if I'd pull the same stunt twice! That's the only part of the whole thing that feels a bit insulting. I'm perfectly capable of coming up with brand new ways to XXXXX if it seems necessary, eh? But then, I suppose if it makes him feel any better, I can put up with it. There's a war on, you know; we all have to XXXXXXX._

 _Our Red Cross parcels came, last XXXXXX, and not a moment too soon; I was just about out of XXXX, and you know what I can get like when that happens. Last time, my mate XXXXX and I got into a scrap that all but XXXXX the whole XXXXXXX, until XXXXXXX had to come over and XXXXXX. Nobody wanted to see that happen a second time, I'll tell you that. The stovepipe hasn't been the same since._

 _Everything else is about the same as usual. The food is still XXXXX, and the weather is basically XXXXX, and I miss you, but I'm just fine and you don't have to worry about a thing. Mind you, your last letter gave ME a few things to worry about. I guess with all us dashing XXXXX over here, there isn't too much for you birds to pick from back home, and I can't fault you for wanting to go to the pictures, but going with that chump XXXXXX? He'd better have kept his hands to himself, that's all I can say, and if he didn't, you can just tell him that your big brother is going to XXXXXXXXXXXXX and he can just XXXXXXX, if he ever wants to be able to XXXXX again without a special XXXX. Or else just do like I taught you and use that pointy little knee of yours, whichever you prefer._

 _Chin up!_

 _Peter_

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Mavis smiled, and put the mutilated letter safely away with all the others. There was always a bit of mystery involved with these letters; what had the censors taken offense at _this_ time? Well, the first paragraph was simple enough; probably cards or darts or something. Both featured among his favorite pastimes, and he was far too good at both to be allowed to compete with amateurs.

Auntie Henrietta, who was technically no relation, but who had been a lifelong friend of their mother's and had therefore qualified as an aunt-by-courtesy, and certainly thought of herself as such, probably _had_ been sending him socks. Giving said socks to anyone who had irritated him would, she thought, have spoken to her brother's somewhat acerbic sense of humor, both as a subtle sort of revenge and as a way to avoid having to wear them himself. Her knitting was rather a family joke; both of them had suffered through a long succession of scratchy hats, jumpers with mismatched sleeves, lumpy socks, and itchy mufflers, for which they were expected to thank the old dear with as much enthusiasm as they could believably muster, and which they were obligated to wear whenever she came by for a visit.

And the last paragraph was bog-standard overprotective big brother nonsense. George had been a perfect gentleman. And if he hadn't been, well, Peter _had_ taught her to use her knee when necessary, back when she had still worn her hair in pigtails. It wasn't as though she needed a bodyguard, a chaperone, _or_ a reminder, and she intended to tell him so in her next letter.

As for the parcel, that had to be about cigarettes. Or possibly tea, but cigarettes were more likely. His temper was volatile enough even with nicotine in his system; without it... well! Precisely what had happened to the stovepipe was, she suspected, going to be the subject of a dramatic tall tale when he got back home.

When he got home. Her smile faded. She picked up a handful of letters, flipped through them. All of them sounded so cheerful. So normal, in between the gaping holes left by the censor's knife and the larger holes in the content of the letters. She knew her brother; he could deliver a ten minute diatribe on a burnt piece of toast, and would bite off his own tongue before letting her know if anything was really wrong.

And the fact remained that he was rotting away in some godforsaken prison camp. Completely at the mercy of Nazis, God help him. She knew better than to hope that he was keeping his head down and his mouth shut; he wasn't the sort to suffer in silence, and he definitely wasn't the sort to let people he saw as his responsibility suffer at all. There was no chance in the world that his biggest worries really revolved around impromptu card games and ill-fitting socks. No chance at all. The letters blurred to gibberish as she blinked back tears she had no intention of letting fall.

She caught her breath, and put the letters neatly back into the biscuit tin she used in lieu of a filing cabinet. And told herself that, so long as he was still writing, so long as he was still alive, she was luckier than a great many people on the home front, and in any case, she was doing no one any good by worrying.

If she told herself that often enough, she thought, she might even come to believe it. In the meantime, she made a mental note to go to the shops after work, and see if she couldn't pick up a few skeins of wool. Peter would be needing socks. He'd just given away Aunt Henrietta's, after all; he would probably appreciate a nice, new pair. And it wasn't much, but then, there wasn't much she… or anyone else… could do.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: The censors really did get a bit overzealous, didn't they? That letter must have looked like a copper-plate colander. (And Newkirk has a real gift for writing complete and utter fiction, wouldn't you say?) I'm figuring to post letters both to and from various heroes, as inspiration strikes, and possibly a bit of what was _really_ happening to the writers and the recipients, as well. You know, all the things that, for obvious reasons, they wouldn't commit to paper. The heroes had no choice but to conceal their exploits from their families... and the families would have felt obligated to conceal their fears from the heroes.


	2. Chapter 2

_Dear Rob,_

 _Our Victory Garden was a little more victorious than anyone ever counted on. Well, some of it, anyway. We've harvested a mountain of XXXXX, XXXXX, and enough XXXXXX to choke a horse, assuming a horse could be convinced to eat one of those things in the first place, which I doubt. A lot of the other vegetables… well, you can't win them all. Squirrels ate more of the XXXXXXX than we did, the pesky little thieves, and the raccoons had an absolute feast on whatever the rabbits left behind, and if every single bird in the state didn't drop by to steal the XXXXXXXXXX, it's only because they were too busy eating the XXXX. I followed your advice about how to build a scarecrow, and we put him smack dab in the middle of the garden, monocle and all, but I'm afraid that he didn't do a very good job._

 _But fortunately for us, there were a few vegetables that the woodland creatures didn't seem to like very much, and I've been scouring my cookbooks to find new and exciting ways to use them up. Except there don't seem to_ _be_ _any. We've had mashed XXXXXX five times in the last week and a half, and your XXXXXX is beginning to make that face of his—you know the one. He's bound and determined not to say anything unpleasant, but at the same time, he's wishing he could throw the whole XXXXX out the window without hurting my feelings, but the truth of the matter is that I'd be sorrier to see the XXXX broken than the XXXXXX spilled! I was hoping that you could talk to your friend, the one who's such a good cook, and see if HE knows anything exciting to do with XXXXX or XXXXX? Even without rationing, there's only so much I can think of to do with the silly things. Oh, well._

 _My friend XXXXXXX is trying to organize what she calls a Victory Harvest Festival. I'm not entirely certain what the point is supposed to be, but most of us did grow Victory Gardens, and most of us did manage to raise something. I don't think she's planning to award prizes for the biggest XXXXX or the prettiest XXXXXX, and I'm_ _almost_ _certain that she isn't really going to make us all dress as Pilgrims re-enacting the first XXXXXXXX, but one can never be entirely sure what she's going to take it into her head to do. Perhaps the idea is to have all of us get together and dream up interesting ways to serve XXXXXXXX to our husbands for the XXXXX time without having them divorce us._

 _But enough about us. How are_ _you_ _doing? Are you well? Do you have enough warm clothing? It's getting cold at night here; I suppose it must be cold over there, too. Is there anything I can send you? We miss you so, so much, Rob. I hope you're taking care of yourself. I know, I know, you always say that, as an XXXXX, your first priority is always your XXX, but our first priority is YOU, and mothers outrank even XXXXXXX._

 _All my love, Mom_

 _PS: Your father sends his love. He says he'd like to send some of our XXXXX harvest as well, because the XXXX would be sure to confiscate them, eat them, and immediately beg to be allowed to XXXXXXXX. And then you could come home. I think I've just been insulted, but I like the last part of the idea so much that I'll let it pass. Love, Mom_

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Hogan chuckled. His mother's sense of humor never failed her, even if her agricultural skills weren't quite as well-honed as her wits. God only knew what she had grown in that garden of hers. Probably root vegetables like parsnips and beets; nothing could kill those, no matter how much one might wish otherwise. Mashed turnips—or whatever—five times in a week! He shuddered. Considered solely in terms of culinary crimes, that probably gave the slop they served in the mess hall a run for its money.

And _she_ didn't have a French chef on staff to turn it into something worth eating. Well, he'd have LeBeau write down everything he knew about vegetables, and send it to her, that was for damned sure. It was the least he could do.

Because the only thing she _wanted_ was the one thing he couldn't promise. He wasn't coming home anytime soon, not unless Short, Dark, and Loony and his buddies in Berchtesgaden had a sudden change of heart and surrendered. Not especially likely.

And he was being pretty much anything but careful as regarded his own safety, he admitted to himself, running his fingers along the trick edge of his bunk, the one that concealed his collection of German maps. Some of those maps even showed places he hadn't blown up. Yet.

Not _many_ , but some.

No, he wasn't playing it safe. He didn't dare. Because she was wrong; his first priority wasn't his men, not anymore, and God forgive him the necessity. His first priority was _victory_ , pure and simple. He had to do everything—absolutely _everything_ —in his power to make sure that the madness in Berlin didn't have the chance to devour the rest of the world, up to and including a certain little house in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Turnips and all.

 _Sorry, Mom._

He pulled down the hidden map with a decisive snap. According to London, there was an ammo dump some twenty miles southeast of the camp.

By morning there wouldn't be.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Victory Gardens sound so patriotic, don't they? I have whatever the exact polar opposite of a Green Thumb might be, so it's a good thing that I've never been in a position where my food supply depended on my ability to keep plants alive. At one time or another, I've tried growing most of the garden staples to which the censor took such an inexplicable dislike, (Tomatoes, corn, pumpkins, zucchini, etc, etc,) and ended up with pretty much nothing except some very fat squirrels and the healthiest, most well-fertilized weeds you can imagine.

Mind you, I didn't have a monocled Kommandant scarecrow guarding my crops, the way Mrs. Hogan did. Perhaps I should try that next time.


	3. Chapter 3

_Dear Mom and Dad,_

 _How's everything back at home? Hope that everyone's well. I'm fine. I know Mom never believes me when I say it, but it's true. I'm F-I-N-E. The weather today wasn't nearly as XXXXXX as usual, which was a XXXXX surprise, seeing as how it had been XXXXX for most of the previous XXXXX. According to XXXXXX, anything less than a torrential XXXXX is the German equivalent of a balmy spring day, and I should, quote, enjoy it while it bloody well lasts, unquote. And then he tacked on something to the effect that tomorrow will probably be XXXXXX again, bummed a XXXXXX, and went back to his XXXX game. XXXXX says, and again, this is a direct quote, that it's perfect weather for going XXXX, if we were allowed to XXXX, which we're not, but at least we can enjoy thinking about how much fun it would be if we could. And then he started telling me about a XXXXXX trip he took with his cousin, before the war, and about the three foot long XXXXXX they caught. For fifteen minutes. Just to round out the opinion survey, after XXXX had finally finished his story, I asked XXXXX what_ _he_ _thought of the weather. He's a little less volatile than our pal XXXXX, in the same way that Lake XXXXXX is a little less damp than the XXXXXXX Ocean, except when food is concerned, in which case he makes XXXXX look like Shirley XXXXXX. Seems that soufflé doesn't come out too well when it's XXXXX. That was about all I got before the whole conversation devolved into the sort of XXXX we didn't learn in the Berlitz course._

 _That's not to say that I haven't learned that sort of XXXX, here and there—mostly here, come to think of it—but I'm not going to tell you guys about it. Mom, you would probably manage to wash my mouth out with soap from the other side of the world._

 _So much for the weather. What else is new? Well, not a lot. A few of the guys and I were assigned to fix a XXXXXX, a really fancy one belonging to some visiting XXXXX, that had mysteriously started making odd noises. He couldn't use it; it was completely unsafe. We did our best, but you know how it is with XXXX; sometimes they just don't want to XXXXXX. He had to borrow a XXX from the XXXXX here in order to make it to some important XXXXXX. Everything was in perfect order by the time he got back, of course; the guys here may not be the best XXXXXXX in the world, but we're pretty darned good at getting the job done when we need to._

 _I guess that's all the news that's fit to print. My love to all of you,_

 _James_

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

John reread the letter for the third time; it still sounded good. He was not fool enough to think that life in prison was nearly as carefree and pleasant as Jamie was making it sound, but some of it rang true. Things were, therefore, not as bad as they could have been. Not as bad as they might easily have been. It was cold comfort, perhaps. But better than nothing at all.

And there was the other part of it, too; Jamie, it seemed, was getting along with his fellow prisoners. He wasn't alone in there. And he wasn't, it seemed, being treated as lesser. Not by the Germans, and, perhaps more surprisingly, not by the other Allied airmen. The casual mention of 'the guys' was telling, and this wasn't the first letter that had featured them heavily.

Stalag 13 was not a segregated camp. That fact did not seem to be getting in the way of what sounded like genuine friendships. _That_ was comforting.

He wasn't alone in there. Jamie wasn't alone.

John Kinchloe held on to that thought like a lifeline.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Whatever Hogan was smuggling in or out of camp in that staff car, take it as read that it was vitally important. And I ask you to accept on faith that the guys didn't do anything _too_ egregious to the important visitor's car. The officer himself would have been small loss to anyone with the possible exception of his pet dog, and even the dog probably wouldn't have grieved too strenuously, but a nice car is a piece of mobile art. A pity to destroy it if not strictly necessary.

As regards the nickname 'Jamie,' I don't think that Kinch would at all appreciate it if any of his friends used the diminutive. He's pretty much never called by his first name onscreen, aside from his high school crush, who called him 'Ivan,' which was a pretty obvious line flub that should never have made it out of the blooper reel. I thought about having his parents call him that, as some sort of childhood nickname, to try to make sense of the error, but decided that it wasn't worth the hassle.


	4. Chapter 4

Translated from the Lakota. Bold text, in brackets, is marginalia added by the censor, and is translated from German.

Dear Little Deer,

 **[What is this? I don't even recognize this language.]**

Hope you're doing well. I'm all right, but I did have something of a close call a few days back, and there's a nasty looking graze on my left leg as a souvenir. Lucky for me, the rotten Krauts can't aim too well— I don't think there's going to be anything but a scar and a story in a few weeks.

 **[It isn't English, or any other European language. And it's not in Cyrillic, so it isn't Russian, and I know what Greek looks like, and it isn't this.]**

So I'm in the hospital recuperating, which seems to be a fancy word for 'staring at the wall and being bored silly.' I'm just sitting here, in this little room, all day, waiting for something to happen, and it never does. I guess you've got the same problem over where you are, so I shouldn't complain, but I really hate just lying here doing nothing.

 **[Is this code? What am I supposed to do with this?]**

They're probably not going to send me home, though, not for a little scratch like this, but the funny thing is I don't mind. I think I'm almost glad. I mean, it's awful here, and it's kind of scary, but I'm still sort of glad I'm staying to finish the job. Even though I'd sure like to get back home, I'd really hate to leave my buddies in the unit to keep fighting without me. You know how it is.

 **[How am I supposed to know what to cut? Should I forward this to the cryptography boys?]**

I heard from Mom a few weeks ago. Everyone's doing okay back home, she said. Grandad's been having some good luck with his snares, so they're not as hard up for meat as the townies are. And she and your mom are going to be running a big scrap metal drive with the other ladies from church. I think you'd better write to your mom and tell her to leave your motorcycle alone.

 **[To Hell with it. They don't pay me enough for this. Pass it through.]**

I guess that's all. Take care,

Rabbit

*.*.*.*.*.*

Carter bit his lip. He didn't like the idea of his cousin in the hospital. And his leg, of all places! Rabbit had been as fast a runner as his namesake; Carter hoped that he still would be, once he'd healed up a little.

At least he was alive, and in one piece. That was the important thing, after all. And Rabbit wasn't in some terrible stalag somewhere, a real one, with mean goons and no tunnels or Colonel Hogans. He was hurt, yes, but it wasn't too bad. He was safe.

Sort of safe, anyway.

With a shiver, Carter wondered how much of Rabbit's letter was the same kind of soothing lies he, himself, wrote to his family so that they would think that he was at least sort of safe, too.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: We see Carter receiving at least one letter written in Lakota. I can't be certain, but from the two seconds it was onscreen, the paper didn't seem to have any holes in it. Perhaps the censors just threw up their hands.

There do seem to have been some Lakota code talkers, but I don't think Rabbit was one of them. If he was, he probably wouldn't have been sending personal letters, in that language, into a German prison camp where they could study it at their leisure. His CO would have had a few things to say about that, I would imagine, and if Rabbit hadn't been on the injured reserve list _before_ that conversation, he probably would have been afterwards.


	5. Chapter 5

_My love,_

 _I miss you. I think of you often—when I wake up alone, when I sit at a bare table and look at the place it still seems you should be, when the night seems too big and too dark and too frightening without you by my side._

 _I don't recognize my world anymore. Everything seems to be crumbling to pieces, and I'm afraid, dearest, I'm so very afraid of what will be left behind when the rubble has been swept away. Perhaps it will be terrible. Perhaps there will be nothing at all. I'm not sure which frightens me more._

 _I hate this. All of this. I don't even know what I'm doing here. What am I trying to accomplish? Everything is wrong, and there are no choices left that aren't a betrayal of_ _someone_ _, and I never wanted any of this to happen. This isn't the person I ever wanted to be._

 _I'm so tired of war. Guns and death and barbed wire. Such a waste of lives. Such a waste of time. Just a waste. And a sin. I'm so tired of it all. And I miss you so very much._

 _I love you._

 _Hans_

(Translated from the German.)

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

He kissed the letter before sliding it slowly into an envelope, and sat on his bunk, the letter pressed between his palms, as if praying, for a very long time.

Then he threw it into the stove, all the fears and questions and treasons with which she did not need to be burdened vanishing in a single blaze, and took out a fresh sheet of paper to try again.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Schultz chases his fair share of skirts, and he makes a lot of really nasty jokes about his wife's looks, and her cooking, and her size, all of which I am choosing to ignore, because I would rather think that he had a happy home life with a wife and children that he loved. Seriously—some of those jokes make him sound like a complete and utter creep, and the bag of laundry he schlepped home on his leave didn't help any. Perhaps those jokes were simply a way of distancing himself from the fact that he was far away from home, far from his family, in a situation that must have been terrifying, balanced as he was on the razor's edge between destruction, disloyalty and inhumanity, and watching his country devour itself.


	6. Chapter 6

_Dear Louis,_

 _Disaster! My mother-in-law has invited herself to come stay with us for a long visit. The sort of visit where she's announced that she'll be here on XXXXXX afternoon, but that I shouldn't go to any trouble; all she needs is a corner and a crust, and she doesn't want to be a burden, she just wants to see her darling XXXXX once more before she dies, and so forth and so on, and she'll bring a trunk the size of a XXXXXXX, move into my spare room, and criticize my cooking, and my housekeeping, and my clothes, and everything else she can possibly think of, and she'll probably stay for XXXX years!_

 _But what can I do? XXXXXX loves her, of course, so I have to smile and keep silent. And I have to be fair; it's really not XXXX where she is, and I know XXX is scarce, and even if it isn't_ _much_ _XXXXX here, at least we've been able to keep ourselves in XXXXXX. And XXXXX would never even dream of telling his mother he'd much rather she XXXXXX someone else's house, and he'd be utterly XXXXXX if I were to tell her so. Even if it is true… and it is. It's bad enough that we as a XXXXX are being occupied by the XXXXX. Now I am being occupied by the XXXXX_ _and_ _by Madame XXXXX! I'll go mad!_

 _And, I swear to you, if she asks me when we intend to have XXXXXX more than XXXX times in a single XXXX, I will not be held responsible for what I might do. Because the answer has not changed since the last time she asked that question; I will not bring a XXXX into this world until I have some reason to believe that it will be a world worth living in. Not here, and not now, when XXXX strut about our XXXXX as though they have any right to be here. Not when a XXXXX costs its weight in XXXX and must be divided between XXXX plates. Not when XXXX fall from the skies. I'm simply not ready yet._ _Not yet. I know you can understand that. I'm not sure if I'm being wise, being cowardly, or being selfish—well, I know what my dear mother-in-law would say, but I've never cared about her opinions before this and don't intend to start now—but that's how I feel._

 _I hope you're well. I hope you're safe. But then, all_ _you_ _have to worry about are XXXXX. They have to abide by the Geneva Convention, which is more than I can say for Madame XXXXXX. Wish me luck, and know I wish the same for you._

 _Yours always,_

 _Jeanne_

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Louis laughed as he put away his letter. Poor Jeanne. He didn't envy her. That dragon of a mother-in-law would put her through her paces, that was a certainty. Well, she'd brought it on herself. Her _first_ mother-in-law had been a veritable saint. No one had forced her to switch horses midstream.

Which was not to say that the two of them weren't far better off as friends than they had been as lovers. They were. Their marriage had been a very painful, very short-lived mistake, and both of them had been happy to end it with as little fanfare as possible. He had ended up with a dear friend, almost a sister. She had ended up with a brother and, it seemed, a sounding board. He still loved her, in a way, and he wished her nothing but happiness. He knew she felt the same way.

Perhaps if she hadn't lost the baby things might have been different. But she had. And they weren't.

If the war had taught him nothing else, it had trained him to be grateful for what he had, because there was always more that could be taken away, at a moment's notice or none at all. Always.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Louis makes one wry reference to being married, with the implication that he hadn't had much choice in the matter, and then never refers to his wife again. And his 'little black book,' which looked to be longer than the Oxford Unabridged, certainly doesn't fit the profile of a happy husband; I am therefore making the unilateral decision that he _was_ married, at some point, but is not now, because otherwise he comes off like a philandering SOB. And the further decision that he and his ex are on friendly, non-bitter terms, because I don't like any of the other options.


	7. Chapter 7

_Dear Dad,_

 _Every now and then, we all have the 'what are you going to do after the XXX is over' conversation. Well, let me tell you this. Whatever I do, it_ _won't_ _be anything to do with sports!_

 _Ever tried to XXXXXX a game where half the players think they're playing baseball and the other half think they're playing cricket? Because I have! In case you were wondering, it's quite a XXXXXXX._ The _football and/or rugby games are pretty XXXXX, too. For one thing, depending on what side of the XXXXXX you're on, 'football' means XXX completely XXXXXXX games. That much I'd known XXXXXX. But it turns out that there are XXX different versions of rugby, as well! Why didn't anyone ever bother to mention that in XXXX?_

 _So even after I convince the men that we'll play what I'd call 'soccer' some other time, and by convince, I do mean 'order,' there are XXX teams of men, and both teams are playing by XXXXX separate sets of rules. And that's_ _before_ _someone gets the bright idea to settle a score or XXX and tackle someone who doesn't have the ball. I'll mention no names, but by this point, I've got a man who probably deserves either the XXXX Cross for bravery above and beyond or a dishonorable discharge for conduct unbecoming, and I'll be damned if I can figure out which._

 _No one's figured out how to turn volleyball into basketball—yet—but it's probably just a matter of time. For the moment, Barracks XXXX holds the all-time record for the XXXX-inning argument, to say nothing of the Grand Slam slugfest, but there's a XXX-way tie for XXXXX place, and, lucky me, I get to play umpire for all of them._

 _Anyway, we ended up inventing a brand new sport. Stalagball. You'd love it. We used a volleyball, and there were XXXX strikes, not XXXX, because we usually needed at least XXX mulligan when someone challenged my ball/strike rulings, and the base runners were allowed to tackle the basemen. If a batter was able to tackle the pitcher before being tagged out, anyone else on base advanced a spot, and if he could get the ball through the net, that was double points. I don't remember exactly where the horseshoes came into it, but I'm sure it made sense at the time._

 _Anyway, the season came to an XXXXX end when somebody shouted 'home run' and the XXX misinterpreted the situation. Nobody was hurt, but the ball's doing XXXXX days for attempting to escape. Oh well, there's always next year, right?_

 _Your son, Rob_

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Oh, Rob. Edward Hogan reread the letter, trying to divine the truth/jokes ratio. All right, he and his men probably _did_ play a lot of games to pass the time, and in a multinational group like that one, there probably _was_ a good bit of, well, call it 'vigorous discussion' about rules.

That last paragraph was making him sick to his stomach, though. Rob's vivid imagination had not appeared from thin air, and Edward's was effortlessly conjuring visions of trigger-happy gorillas. And what the hell was the ball doing for however many days it was? Was that some sort of prison slang? What kind of horrors were so commonplace in that hellhole that he didn't even need to spell out the details?

And as for next year… if there was a merciful God in Heaven, by next year they would all be home.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: I'd known about the football/football thing; I've injured myself playing both versions, as a matter of fact. An overabundance of enthusiasm, a complete lack of coordination, and a very hazy grasp of the rules do not make for athletic greatness. I had _not_ been aware that there were different versions of rugby, but apparently there are. My school had a women's rugby team, but all I really remember are a lot of jokes about the team's 'hookers.'

Hogan is almost certainly exaggerating slightly for humorous effect; I'm sure that the men weren't really quite as unruly as described, and probably weren't using unauthorized tackles as impromptu vigilante justice all _that_ much. And if they were, whoever it was probably had it coming. Oh, and another thing- the ball got off with a stern warning. First offense, after all.

And as for the shenanigans for which the Stalagball tournament provided a most efficient diversion, well... let's just say that they're already choosing up sides for next season. Heck, Mama Bear even offered to do the play-by-play announcements!


	8. Chapter 8

_Dear Bloody Stupid Censors,_

 _All right, I've had enough of you. The last letter I got was missing all the nouns, most of the verbs, and three quarters of the adjectives. It looked like an antimacassar, and if you think that a letter consisting entirely of the words THE, AND, and OF is in any way satisfying, guess again. Here's a letter you can cut to pieces at your leisure, all right? Chop away at this one, and leave the others alone!_

 _To hell with Hitler, Goebbels can kiss my arse, and we Allies are going to turn Hamburg into hamburger any day now. How do you like that?_

 _Let's see. What else? Yesterday, I wheeled my invisible flying jeep out of the hangar, fueled it up with a handful of potato peels, and drove it to Berlin, where I passed some top secret information on to a cabal of spies disguised as lampposts. After that, I met up with some mates for a beer. We all tried to sing a few rousing tunes from Die Walkure, but it turns out that Eisenhower can't carry a tune in a sack, de Gaulle kept forgetting the words, and Winnie's coloratura was a bit off, so we stopped. After that, we all took a nice spin around town, stopping in for tea with Goring and Himmler, both of whom had some very interesting new plans to assassinate the Fuhrer. Seeing as how there isn't anything else in Hitler's shorts to get in the way, Hess thought it might be a good idea to plant a couple of bombs in there, but pretty little Eva thought it would be easier to_

Hogan leaned over Newkirk's shoulder, read a few lines. "You're not sending that," he said mildly.

"No, of course not. Felt good to write, though," Newkirk said.

"I'm sure it did, but it's too close to the truth," Hogan said. "Can't have that. Oh, and I'm not totally sure what it is we're having for dinner, but LeBeau's been hovering over the stove since breakfast, so at least pretend you like it, all right?"

"Cor, don't believe in asking the easy ones, do you? All right, sir; I'll do me best," Newkirk said, rummaging in his jacket pocket. "Oh, do me a favor, please? This one _is_ meant to be posted. Could you take care of it, Colonel?"

"Sure thing," Hogan said, taking the somewhat crumpled letter. It was, as usual, addressed to Mavis. As the years went by, his original bevy of girlfriends had, seemingly, found other correspondents, but there was always, _always_ , a letter or two either heading to or hailing from Stepney to be found in Schultz's mailbag. "I'll slip it into the stack with the rest."

"Thanks, sir," Newkirk said. "I appreciate it."

"Any time. Any good gossip in there?"

"Usual nonsense. I'm all right, don't worry, weather's fine, food's rubbish, and 'ere's 'ow we went about killing time this week. I said that Carter put up a birdfeeder, and we've been doing some birdwatching, but so far I've not seen a single blonde, wink wink, nudge nudge. You know the sort of thing."

"Birdwatching, huh?" Hogan shook his head. This was one of the cellar-level, dim, windowless cooler cells; Newkirk hadn't seen sunlight in ten days, let alone a bird. Blonde or otherwise. "That's imaginative."

Newkirk didn't smile. "Well, sir… I 'ave to tell the poor girl _something_."

Hogan sighed. "I know. I'm still working on Klink. I'll have you out of here as soon as I can."

"I can write lies as easily in 'ere as in the barracks," Newkirk said, shrugging it off. "And I still 'ave to finish this note to the censors, so that'll keep me occupied for a while yet."

Hogan tucked Newkirk's latest work of fiction into his inside jacket pocket and stood up. "Then I'll leave you to it, Shakespeare. And don't forget—dinner is going to be delicious. Even if it isn't. Okay?"

"Yes, sir. I've always been extremely fond of 'Eartburn a la LeBeau, avec Regrets Eternel et un Soupcon d'Indigestion. Perhaps you can talk 'im into sending along a bicarb of soda cocktail for afters."

"I'll see what I can do," Hogan said. "Just as a sidebar, your French seems to be improving."

"Well, don't let Louie know that. He gets far too much pleasure out of moaning about 'ow awful me accent is."

"And you get far too much pleasure out of watching him blow his top. I'm aware. Don't give me any more reasons to leave you in here, okay?" Hogan shoved the loose block to the side, and hunkered down to crawl into the tunnel.

"Come now, Colonel, be 'onest. After all this time, do you really still need to look for more reasons?"

Hogan looked up at him, and grinned broadly enough to light up the cell. "You know, I hadn't really thought about it. But now that you mention it... no. No, I really don't."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: A few people asked about what was happening from the point of view of the writer, as opposed to the recipient. Let it never be said that I don't deliver precisely what was asked, if not necessarily what the reader actually wanted. And whatever it was that LeBeau brought over for dinner, I'm sure that it was absolutely splendid.


	9. Chapter 9

The usual mail-call melee had been slightly less horrible than it might have been, Schultz thought. He had been knocked about, bumped and jostled, and the strap of the mailbag had chafed his ear rather sharply when someone had tried to snatch the bag from his shoulder, but nothing seemed to be visibly bruised, and nothing was broken. With a sigh, Schultz left the barracks. He had nothing against the prisoners—they were only enemies for political reasons, and he made it a point to ignore politics as much as he could—and, for the most part, they were all very nice boys.

Except for mail call, at which point they turned into a horde of raving berserkers. The possibility of dying in combat, however honorable and glorious those who had never seen a battlefield seemed to think it was, pleased him not at all; the prospect of being ripped limb from limb over a handful of letters exponentially less so. Next time, he thought hopefully, perhaps he could open the door, throw in the mailbag, and run away while they were fighting over it. Surely the Big Shot would understand, and would rather lose a canvas bag than a Sergeant of the Guard, right?

…No, no he wouldn't. Sighing again, he trudged back to his post.

Back in the barracks, Hogan tore open his letter, releasing a cloud of perfume that was practically visible, and skimmed the first few lines.

 _Dear Rob,_

 _I have to begin this letter with a warning, darling; I'm awfully tired tonight, and might not be as chatty as usual. But then, there isn't really much I can say that you haven't already heard a thousand times, is there? All my thoughts are like broken records, spinning in the same channels, over and over, and no matter what else I do, I can think of nothing but you._

 _Oh, Rob, how I wish you were here with me tonight— every night. How I long for you; your arms, your eyes, your kisses…_

Olsen whistled. "Wow, Colonel, I sure wish I could get some mail like _that!_ "

The others laughed. "Weren't you taking those correspondence courses on radio repair?" Mills asked. "Ask your tutor to spray some toilet water on your transistor diagrams, why don't you?"

"Nah. That would be if he taking a correspondence course in _plumbing_ ," Kinch wisecracked.

"I wish he was," Carter said. "The faucets on the sink are getting all hinky again."

"No surprises there," Newkirk said. "Considering that we've probably got the only 'ot and cold running periscope in Europe."

"Pfft. That piece of junk never ran hot, even _before_ we turned it into a periscope," LeBeau grumbled.

Newkirk winked at him. "If you aim it just right, mate, you can see Fraulein Hilda. That's 'ot enough for _me_." As the men considered that little nugget of information, Newkirk opened his mail, and raised an eyebrow. "Allo, allo, allo, what 'ave we 'ere? Seems that dear old mum's written me a letter. Wasn't that nice of 'er?"

Carter looked puzzled. "Gosh, my mom writes me all the time."

"Yes, well, I'm afraid my mum's not much of a correspondent. But, then, seeing as 'ow she's been dead since I was ten, I don't like to think what the postage must have come to." Newkirk laughed, and held up a sheet of paper with so many holes in it that it looked like a doily. "Not much left of it, is there? The angels are rougher censors than the Krauts. 'Ere you go, Colonel."

Hogan laughed too, and took it. London had assigned each of them a few fictitious correspondents as a method of sneaking information past the censors. "Well, God can't be too careful. Remember, the last written message He delivered was on a stone tablet, and the mailman went and smashed it." He picked up his letter again, enjoying the perfume. He wished the girlfriend who had allegedly written it actually existed—whoever they had drafting these dummy messages had a real way with words, not to mention lovely handwriting and excellent taste in fragrances.

Tabling that thought for the time being, he placed the missive from Mrs. Newkirk on top of it, lining up the corners precisely. He then read through the holes. "Warning. Usual channels compromised. Radio silence. No moves until further notice." He clenched his jaw, folded up the letters, and stuffed them in a pocket.

"...Cor," Newkirk said after a moment. "If that's the kind of news she's going to go and write about, I'm glad she doesn't often take the trouble."

"What are we going to do, Colonel?" Carter said.

"Only thing we _can_ do. Wait for further instructions, and be good little prisoners until we get them. With any luck, Mrs. Newkirk will start to get very chatty over the next couple of weeks." He forced himself to grin, as if nothing was wrong, as if any of his men would be fooled by false joviality. "Oh, and one other thing. She hopes you're wearing your long underwear and brushing your teeth regularly," Hogan said, and went into his office, shutting the door firmly behind him.

The rest of his core team traded a complicated glance, then followed him.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: We do see them using the barracks sink, _as_ a sink, in several episodes, so it really was functional. Don't ask me how that was possible, because I would have imagined that the water pressure would wreak utter havoc with the mirrors they must have installed in the pipes in order to use it as a periscope!

As for Mrs. Newkirk, he mentions her a couple of times, usually when he's spinning nonsense in order to distract someone. As probably goes without saying, none of the stories match, so sometimes she's dead and sometimes she isn't. The idea that she died when he was quite young is my own.


	10. Chapter 10

_Dear Lillian,_

 _Last night I dreamed of you, my love. I dreamed that we were together, in our garden. Just the two of us, hand in hand, surrounded by flowers, not barbed wire, and I woke up with a lump in my throat and a newfound determination to make it home to you._

 _What can I say to you that I haven't already said a hundred times over? You are my strength. The thought of you is the one thing that keeps me going in here. It's lonely, Lily darling, in a way I'm not sure I can explain. I've got thirteen roommates, and three hundred near neighbors, and still sometimes it feels so lonely I could almost cry. That's when I think of you, when I remember every detail of your beautiful face, and every word you ever spoke, and I know that I'll never truly be alone. That no matter how far apart we may be in terms of mere geography, we'll always be together in our hearts, and that's what really matters. For now, I have your letters and my memories of you, and that is all I need to face another day in Germany. And someday, I hope someday soon, I'll be home, and we'll make a lifetime's worth of new memories. _

_I'll never know how a woman like you ever came to love a man like me. It awes me, really. Look at yourself! How could one woman be perfect in so many ways? Your beauty, your incredible strength of mind, your loving heart—can this really all be meant for me? Is this much happiness truly possible?_

 _I don't know much, but I do know this. If you are just a dream, I hope I never wake up._

Newkirk chewed thoughtfully on the end of his pencil, and reread what he had written so far. It struck a fairly decent balance between passion and politeness, he thought. Not a word in it she couldn't show her dear old mum, but still a far cry from the pitiful 'Dear what's-her-name, how are you, I am fine, miss you lots, love from whoever' form letters that seemed to be the best some of the lads could manage on their own. No, what a girl wanted was poetry, not a laundry list. He bit the pencil again, glancing at his notes, comparing them to the letter. Yes, it was perfect. Now to sign it and send it on its way.

 _All my love, forever and a day,_

 _Ned_

Right, then. He'd filled up two full sheets of note paper; that was four sides at one cigarette apiece. This was becoming a very useful little side job, and everyone benefited. He asked the men to give him the girl's name and/or pet name, a basic description of her looks, (because complimenting a brunette's golden hair or vice versa was not a way to encourage repeat business,) and the sentence 'The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs,' written out twice, once in lowercase, once in uppercase, and that was all he needed. The girls got letters that were actually satisfying to read, the men got something to send that expressed the way they (probably) truly felt but could never have worded half so well, he got a small but steady income, and Colonel Hogan got an increasingly skillful forger out of the deal. By this point he could fake the handwriting of nearly anyone in camp, more or less at sight. That would _have_ to come in handy somewhere down the road.

It was just a crying shame that he had to pretend he didn't speak German. If not for that, he was sure that he could have gotten most of the guards as additional clients.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: I had barely thought of the 'Mail Call' series in ages, and I don't know why this little scene popped into my head this morning, but it's never a clever idea to tell the Inspiration Fairy to come back some other time, because there's always too good a chance that she won't. It's also not a clever idea to start snickering for no perceivable reason where one's co-workers can hear, but the idea of our friend ghostwriting love letters for half the camp (and honing his forgery skills at the same time,) really amused me. So here it is.


	11. Chapter 11

The Colonel had been in a foul mood all day, and nobody was sorry when he finally retreated into his office and slammed the door shut behind him. He glared around the empty room, looking for something amiss, something to be angry at. Something to distract him.

Nothing suggested itself, and he dropped into his desk chair with a sigh. He closed his eyes, took a deep, steadying breath. And another, reminding himself firmly that what they were doing really was important. That it was worth the cost.

Any cost.

He reached for a well-chewed pen, and pulled a precious sheet of writing paper from the box. Took one more deep breath. And bent over his desk to write.

Words were his medium. His métier. The most reliable of his many strengths and the one weapon that no one could take away from him. They flowed onto the page, with a simple, warm eloquence that made his most egregious lies sound reasonable and heartfelt.

Today, he hated himself for it.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

The mailman's daily visit was always a fraught experience. Would there be a letter from Bobby? If not, then _why_ not? And if there was, how much of the sunny chatter was real, and how much was bravado? What seemingly arbitrary words or phrases would the censor have sliced away _this_ time? What wasn't he telling her?

What was really happening to her little boy?

She gave herself a little mental shake. There were so many terrible things that could have happened and hadn't. He was a prisoner, yes, but that meant he wasn't in combat anymore. That meant no one was shooting at him. That meant that he would come home to her, safe and sound, when the war was over. That meant she was going to open the mailbox as though she didn't have a care in the world. She was not going to look scared. She was not going to _be_ scared. If her Bobby could be brave, then she could do no less than live up to his example.

There were two envelopes. Two! That explained why she hadn't heard from him recently; obviously, one of them had been held up in transit somewhere. It happened. Smiling, misty-eyed, at her own fears, she went into the house and sat down to read.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

 _Dear Mom and Dad,_

 _How are you guys doing? We're all fine here. The weather here in XXXXXXX finally remembered to look at a calendar—it's like someone up there said to himself, 'I knew there was something I meant to do! It's XXXXXXX, and that means it's time to remind XXXXXX what the sun looks like!'_

 _Needless to say, everyone in the XXXXXX is now spending as much time as XXXXXXX outdoors. We've been playing a lot of ball games, sometimes instead of XXXXX. It's still good exercise, and much more fun than push-ups. But we're all taking any XXXXX to be out in the sun. One fellow has even been seen using two XXXXX as reflectors, trying to get a suntan. I don't think he's going to get too far, since he was still XXXXXXX his hat and gloves, but I suppose if it makes him happy, it's none of my XXXXXX._

 _Another of the men in my XXXXXX has been a lot more practical. He's planting a XXXXXX, and he says that, with any luck, we'll be having XXXXX before we know it. Of course, as usual, XXXXXX had to start grumbling that his idea of luck didn't involve any unpronounceable XXXXX dishes, and that if he wanted to eat things with 'rat' in them, he'd just go to the XXXXXXXXXXXXX. Everyone laughed, but XXX minutes later, when XXXXX forced him to admit that he didn't even know what was in XXXXXXX, let alone whether he liked it or not, they laughed even harder. I don't know what's in it either, but XXXX is a good cook, so I'm willing to bet that it'll be XXXXX._

 _Anyway, everyone has been eyeing that patch of XXXXX, licking their lips and imagining what they're going to make with all those XXXXXXX, once they come up. I never knew there were so many ways to cook XXXXXX, but it looks like there are. For one thing, every single man in the XXXXXXX says that his mother made it a different way, and that any other recipe would be a XXXXXXX, so the arguments will probably last until XXXXXX. And then XXXXXX will just cook whatever he wants, anyway, because when it comes to food, he doesn't take advice. Or orders. Or criticism. Except from XXXXX, and that's only because no one can shut him up. We've all tried._

 _Guess that's all for now. Got to go; it's my turn to do the weeding._

 _Your son, Bob_

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

She smiled, and let herself hope that no one would ever eat any of those vegetables; that the war would be over before they had sprouted, and that her son would be home long before they were ripe. The 'rat' dish—she assumed that the word the censors had removed was 'ratatouille,' which did not, so far as she was aware, actually contain any rat—might be good. It might be terrible. Either way, it would be far better if he were eating it here.

She refolded the letter, put it back in the envelope. Still smiling, she picked up the second letter.

The handwriting on the envelope was wrong. It wasn't Bobby's handwriting; she knew his every loop and curve, and this was entirely different. It wasn't from her son.

It took her two tries before she could tear it open, because she knew what she was going to see when she did. Her heart was in her throat, but it was also pounding in her ears; how could that be, unless it was already broken?

 _Dear Mr. and Mrs. Nolan,_

 _I regret to inform you of the death of your son, Pfc. Robert Nolan. As his commanding officer, I can only say…_

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Robert Nolan was an OC who made a brief—and posthumous—appearance in another story of mine. (As I Shall Laugh) He was killed while out on a mission; Hogan was forced to hastily disguise his death as an escape attempt gone wrong in order to protect the rest of the unit.

I can't even imagine what what writing a letter like that would have been like for Hogan even _without_ the need to lie about the details. Nolan died a hero, literally as well as figuratively, doing a job he wasn't really trained or prepared to do, and he did it both to help win the war and to help his friends. His parents should have at least been given the opportunity to know that. After the war, after none of it needed to be a secret any longer, I hope they were given that chance.


End file.
